


Like Real People Do

by betts



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Daddy Kink, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, F/M, Idiots in Love, Porn with Feelings, Pregnancy, Spanking, first time anal sex, references to nabokov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-07
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-10-04 17:01:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17308415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betts/pseuds/betts
Summary: To say Bellamy wants to fuck his wife in the ass is an understatement. He’s a hopeless romantic, sure, and the depth of love he has for his soulmate knows no bounds, but he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about it, and even asked about it, but it’s always been the one thing she’s not into.Now, five months pregnant, she's changed her mind.





	Like Real People Do

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bilexualclarke](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bilexualclarke/gifts).



> Happy birthday, Amber!
> 
> Title from the Hozier song of the same name.
> 
> I know virtually nothing about pregnancy so sorry for any inaccuracies.

Pregnant, all Clarke wants is raw steak with mayonnaise and to ride Bellamy’s dick from dusk to dawn. She’s been working from home, which means he’s been eating her out from under her desk while she’s on conference calls, fingering her in the kitchen while waiting for the Keurig to finish, bending her over the dining room table before they even clear their plates from lunch. The small swell of her five-month pregnant stomach gets him so mercilessly hard, and the growing tits are no help, and she’s wet all the time.

She comes up behind him in the kitchen and wraps her arms around his middle, presses her head against his spine. He probes a burger with a meat thermometer. If it were up to her, she’d eat it bloody, but he insists on cooking it through.

“Daddy,” she says.

They should talk about it, the Daddy thing. His brain can acknowledge it’s weird and probably wrong, but the rest of him gets chills every time the word slips from her lips.

For a long time the pregnancy seemed so abstract, a fairy tale he happened to believe, and then she started showing. He poked her tummy and asked, “Is that…?”

“Mhm,” she said, and guided her hand to her. His palm formed over the slightest curve of her stomach. Their baby was growing right there in front of him, right under his hand. A person he would love as much as his wife, and he hadn’t even met them yet. “You’re a daddy now,” she told him.

That was the moment things changed, that this became real. So now she keeps calling him that, _Daddy,_ seemingly to affirm that reality. At first it was innocent, looking down at her belly and saying, “Baby, do you think Daddy will pick up ice cream for us?” and then _to_ him, like, “Does Daddy want to go to bed now?” and then directly: “Give me the remote, Daddy.” Part of him thinks, cunning woman she is, it was all part of some bigger plan, that she’s been wanting an excuse to call him that from day one, and a sliver of him even speculates that in her mind, a major draw to having a baby at all is being able to call him Daddy.

“Hm?” he says.

She presses a soft kiss against his back, trails her fingers below the elastic of his shorts.

“I want something.”

“I know. It’ll be done in a sec.”

“Not that. I want something different.”

“I’m not going to the store again.” He’s gone to the store at least once a day since the craving thing started, which he thought was a myth perpetuated by sitcoms. He already went this morning to get a very specific brand of Amish butter that she used to get when she was a kid, and then she only ate half the piece of toast she’d been craving before getting distracted by work.

“Not that either,” she says.

“Then how may I serve you, Mrs. Blake?”

He slips the spatula under the burger.

“I want to try anal.”

It takes a few passes through his brain for the words to land. In the interim, he manages to get the burger onto the bun, turn off the burner, set down the spatula and turn around to look at her. She’s smiling brightly at him like she just asked to watch Pulp Fiction for the hundredth time, which is another weird craving she has, like a song stuck in her head, except instead of weird food or a catchy bop, she only pays attention to the Butch and Fabienne parts.

To say Bellamy wants to fuck his wife in the ass is an understatement. He’s a hopeless romantic, sure, and the depth of love he has for his soulmate knows no bounds, but he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about it, and even asked about it, but it’s always been the one thing she’s not into. She’ll let him tie her up, spank her until her ass is throbbing, pour hot wax on her thighs, gag her with her own dirty underwear. But until this moment, anal play has always been her hard limit.

And because of that, he says, “No.”

She blinks a few times, surprised and maybe a little offended. No one says no to Clarke Griffin, least of all her husband.

“No?”

“You’re just trying to make it up to me. All the running around I’ve been doing. You don’t have to do that.”

“You’re giving me way too much credit. It never even crossed my mind to make it up to you.” She kisses his neck at his pulse and murmurs sweetly, “I just really, really want it.”

“You do?”

She pulls back and gives him doe eyes while she reaches down and fondles his (quickly hardening) cock over his shorts. “Will you fuck me in the ass, Daddy?”

His throat is dry. Upstairs, in her office, her work phone begins to ring, but she doesn’t make a move to get it, and won’t until she has the answer she wants, which is the answer he’s going to give, just as soon as he regains his composure. It feels strangely like the moment in the den at her parents' house so many years ago when they first met, an odd kind of turning point. Sometimes he worries their relationship is growing stale — they have a simple routine, and some days they don’t talk much at all, just cohabitate in their separate areas and come back together at night to fall asleep in each other’s arms. But now he can see: there’s so much more to come, their baby and everything their family might be. There are ways he hasn’t yet touched her and pleasure he hasn’t made her feel. There are words to be said that have never been spoken between them. There is happiness in their future in equal measure to the tragedies they’ll inevitably face. Her eyes hold both the familiarity of home and the newness of the unknown. He will never know everything there is to know about her, but he will dedicate his life to trying.

“Yeah,” he says, nodding. “We can do that.”

She leans up on her toes and kisses him. “It’s a date.”

 

* * *

 

In Bellamy’s defense, he never expected to fall in love. Or get married, for that matter. Or become a father. Well — he’s not a father yet. But he’s about to be. In the interim, they’ve been having more and weirder sex than they’ve ever had, which is saying something. So much that Bellamy has stopped going to the gym, because he gets his cardio by fucking his wife until he’s exhausted. Even when he’s spent, she asks for his mouth, and when his jaw starts to ache, he uses his fingers, and now he fears an eventual carpal tunnel situation.

He and Clarke have always had exceptionally high libidos, which is partly what drew him to her against all odds and having virtually nothing in common, such that both of their families and friend groups questioned (or outright condemned) their relationship the first year, which was actually the third year; they dated in secret for two, until Clarke graduated from college. She moved in with him instead of with her parents, which they were pissed about, and they lived together in his tiny shitty apartment for a year before they bought the house, and married six months later, which was a small, secular affair with a massive reception after. They spent a month in New Zealand for their honeymoon.

Clarke was nineteen when they first met, a graphic design major born gagging on a silver spoon. Her parents lived on the good side of town in what was basically a mansion tucked into the woods. Bellamy was almost a decade older, a high-school dropout, working a handful of odd jobs to afford rent. He lived in a one-bedroom apartment where Octavia had the bedroom and he slept on a futon in the living room. Only one burner on his stove worked, and his microwave always smelled like fish, because he got it at a garage sale for two dollars.

It was the summer after Clarke’s sophomore year. Abby was renovating the kitchen, and Bellamy worked for a contractor, so he spent every weekday at the Griffin mansion for nearly a month, laying down tile and demolishing walls and installing various appliances. At first, Clarke stayed mostly in the backyard by the pool, tanning in a little yellow two-piece, reading Lolita, of all things. It was only later that he realized she was doing it to get his attention, as well as hanging out on cloudy days in the living room in cutoffs and a tank top, a popsicle in her mouth while she watched Game of Thrones. She was like a shark, circling around the construction while Bellamy pretended not to notice, not to be a fucking pervert eyeing the teenage daughter of one of his boss’s clients.

The first time he spoke to her, he was hauling old wood over his shoulder to the dumpster. She was on a towel by the pool, lying on her stomach, feet crossed at the ankle, reading. Her bikini bottoms were ridden up like a thong, and her breasts were nearly popping out of her top. When he passed her on his way back, he could feel her eyes on him, even though she was wearing sunglasses — the red heart-shaped kind you see in gas stations for three dollars, but which were probably designer wear and cost hundreds. He stopped and nodded to her book. “Any good?”

She tilted her head slightly. “You haven’t read it?”

“Haven’t seen the movie, either.”

“There are two. Kubrick and Lyne. I like Lyne’s better. It has Jeremy Irons.”

“I’ll check it out.”

She kept his gaze for a long moment. Her lips were bright red from a popsicle she’d just finished. She was using the stick as a bookmark. He’d never met someone so young who seemed so old. He could see it in her eyes, surprising depth and the strange resonance you feel when you meet someone on your wavelength. But he felt guilty even thinking that, maybe falsely justifying his attraction.

“Let me know what you think,” she said.

So he went home that night and rented it on Prime. Octavia was at a sleepover. The movie was fucked-up in a way he’d never seen, made him feel weirdly complicit in something he couldn’t wrap his head around. He went to bed that night wondering if she had given a subtle message to him, an invitation. Maybe she was flirting with him, or maybe he was just a creep. The next day he told her he liked it.

“That’s it?” she asked. She was lounging on a chaise in the den, wearing a crop top and shorts and a choker, her hair in a bun that sat crookedly on top of her head. He was in love with her even then, though he couldn’t acknowledge it, and wouldn’t for another couple months. But she always knew. She knew from the moment she saw him, like a homing beacon. It wasn’t fate or destiny or anything ethereal like that. It was determination. She chose him, and because she’s Clarke Griffin, she would have him.

He shrugged. “I might like the Kubrick version better.”

“Same story, though.” She scrunched her legs up to allow him to sit on the end of the chaise, and when he did — feeling dirty, like his filthy jeans might ruin the nice white upholstery, might ruin Clarke just by being this close — she put his feet over his lap. She didn’t even know his name yet. He only knew hers because he’d overheard Jake calling for her, and knew she’d graduated high school because he saw her diploma hanging on the wall with her parents’ degrees. “What’d you think of the story?”

“Traumatizing.” When she didn’t say anything in reply — she was good at that, he noticed, creating silence, in the same way most people are only good at filling it — he added, “Sad. In a lot of ways.”

“But you still liked it.”

He placed a gentle hand on her leg, grazed his thumb over the knob of her ankle. “I liked it.”

In memory, he may have added more meaning to the moment than it really held. If he hadn’t gone on to marry her, he might have even forgotten about it. But as it stands, he remembers it as a turning point, the pad of his rough thumb on her soft skin, sunlight heating the room and dust floating in the slats of light through which it shone. Low sounds of power tools ringing outside the french doors. Her sharp eyes looking right inside him, and delighting in what she found there.

On the last day of work, as the crew cleaned up, she beckoned him away into the den and handed him her phone.

“I want your number,” she said.

Not a question, not even a command. _I want._ Two words that would go on to shape him into the man he is now. She wanted to get coffee the next afternoon, so he picked her up and took her to coffee. She wanted to go to a movie the next day, so he took her to a movie. She wanted to hold his hand. She wanted to go to a bar and have him buy her a drink, even though she was too young. She wanted him to kiss her at the end of the night. She wanted, at a drive-in movie not a week later, to feel his hand between her legs. She wanted him to come over while her parents were on a cruise. She wanted him inside her that night, and every moment they spent alone thereafter. She wanted and wanted, and he gave and gave, filled by it rather than emptied.

At the end of the summer, when she went back to school, he thought it was over. He’d never felt anything like it. Losing his mother didn’t even hurt this badly. When Clarke left, she took half of him with her.

“I can’t do this,” he told her, five beers in while he leaned against the side of his truck outside of a bar. The leaves were already turning. “I want you.”

He couldn’t say _I love you,_ though he did. Love didn’t cut it right then. Love wasn’t enough to express the pain of her absence.

Silence again. Silence he could never read. Silence, in that moment, which could break him.

“I want to be with you,” he said.

Music rang softly in the background. He closed his eyes and imagined her cross-legged on a narrow twin mattress, some faceless roommate passed out across from her.

“Say something.” He knew he sounded desperate. He’d never felt so raw. “Do you want to be with me?”

“Yeah,” she said, her sure, steady voice for once seeming affected. “I do.”

She said it again a few years later, after the kind of pining and drama great romances are made of. Octavia went off to college and stopped speaking to him. Abby and Jake refused to acknowledge their relationship, not only encouraged Clarke to break up with him, but threatened to cut her off from the Griffin family fortune. She reacted to them like she did to everything: a cavalier shrug and “You do whatever you want, and I’ll be doing what I want.”

They never followed through on the threat, as Clarke knew they wouldn’t. Or maybe just didn’t care either way. It was only then that it really clicked with Bellamy, that both of them were willing to lose everything for each other, without hesitation, without regret. He didn’t think he could ever find that level of loyalty in anyone else, the kind he knew he was important to him but never saw in his exes or friends or even Octavia. He never thought he could trust someone as much as he trusts Clarke.

Octavia came to the wedding, and rescinded her anger when she started dating someone older than her, Niylah, a paramedic on the scene after a fender bender that was totally Octavia’s fault. Abby and Jake paid for the wedding, reception, and honeymoon. Now, Bellamy comes to family dinners, the annual vacation in Honolulu. Jake even invites him to football games sometimes. They’ll never be thrilled with him, but it’s good enough.

Clarke got a job for an advertising firm making six figures. Bellamy doesn’t have to work, but he does the occasional contracting to keep busy. He plans to quit as soon as the baby is born, be a stay-at-home dad, which thrills him so much he wonders if it’s his actual purpose in life, the way Clarke is an artist and Octavia is going to be a leader, a politician, probably. Being a father is maybe the thing he was meant for.

 

* * *

 

A buzz settles under his skin the rest of the day. After lunch, Clarke closes herself off in her office to work; Bellamy goes to the hardware store to pick up paint for the nursery. She told him he could decorate it how he wants, which surprised him, considering she’s a designer, but she did the rest of the house. She wants the nursery to be a surprise. And even though he has total reign over it, he finds himself looking at paint swatches, thinking only of what Clarke would choose. Never something so pedestrian as blue or pink, and definitely not yellow, the safest choice of them all. Nor would she be so daring as to choose something like kelly green. He wants to impress her, to show her how much he pays attention when she talks about color theory and art stuff. He doesn’t consider himself a particularly creative or ambitious person — if it weren’t for her, he’d think he was kind of a loser — but she always values his opinions on things, even if he thinks his perspective is worthless.

In the end, he chooses navy blue, which he plans to dot with gold stars in the position of the constellations on the day the baby is born.  

When he returns home he can hear her on a conference call. She’s using her professional, bossy voice. He listens in across the hall as he spreads a tarp out over the hardwood floor of the nursery and begins taping over the perimeter of the window. His mind slips immediately to their bedroom, hours from now, her naked body under his hands. He soon gets overwhelmed and has to shake himself of the daydream just to finish the taping.

Clarke shouts the frustrated half-scream that marks the end of every conference call. He quickly steps out of the nursery and closes the door so she won’t see his progress, and prepares for what he knows comes next: Clarke storms out of her office and says, “Everyone is an idiot.”

“I know.”

“I shut off my computer already.”

“Okay.”

Silence.

“I can start dinner,” he offers.

“I don’t want to wait anymore.” She steps closer to him, rests a hand on his chest, her left one, with the ring he picked out for her, that he thought was embarrassingly modest and simple considering her opulent lifestyle, but which she loves, and wears all the time, like he wears his. “I want you to make me feel little.”

His brain is maybe on the verge of collapse at this point. They’ve never been _vanilla,_ per se, but neither have they opted into any established set of rules and words that he knows exists. They have their own vocabulary they’ve developed in the way you do when you’ve been close to another person for long enough. In fact theirs can sometimes be so intricate, he only notices when they’re around other people and he has to speak to her like a normal person. Feeling little is pretty self-explanatory, but it’s fairly new, and he can’t quite pinpoint when it started, but it feels, weirdly, like one of the filthiest things they do.

Part of him is afraid of the ambiguous darkness they’re facing, not whips and chains or anything else he’s always associated with weird sex, but what’s always worked for them — pastel perversion. His little girl, pregnant with his baby. The kind of thing they can’t really talk about because they don’t have the words, but they also don’t really need them, concepts they grasp through the short bridge of their connection.

He cups her face in his hand, runs his thumb over her lower lip. “You want Daddy to take over for a bit?” He kisses the corner of her mouth lightly, reaches down and rests his hand on her belly. “Want Daddy inside you, sweetheart?”

She nods and pouts, hasn’t aged a day since nineteen. They should wait until they’ve at least eaten dinner — they’re on a _schedule,_ after all — but no rigidity of routine in the world could keep him from slotting his lips over hers and pressing her back against the hallway wall, sliding his hand down the front of her leggings and feeling the wetness pooled there already.

“Soaked already, huh?” he asks.

She pitches her voice up half an octave, threads in a little whine. “Daddy, I was a bad girl today.”

“What’d you do, princess?”

“I touched myself while you were gone.”

“Yeah? Did you get yourself off?”

“I couldn’t help it.” She flushes pink. He doesn’t know if she can do it on command or if she’s actually shy about it. The thought of the latter sends a pulse straight to his cock. “Can’t stop thinking about Daddy fucking my asshole.”

“Christ,” he says, threatening to break the spell, but he never thought he’d hear that combination of words escape her, let alone on a random Tuesday afternoon in April, with their child growing inside her. “Oh, sweetheart.” He grips her hair in his fist, pulling the roots until she gasps. “You sure you’re ready for that? Ready for my cock in your ass?”

She tries to nod but can’t. “Yes, Daddy.”

In the bedroom, he pulls a paddle out of a bedside drawer. It was one of the first toys they bought, a birthday gift to him. That’s when the “no touching yourself without permission” started, to give him a reason to use it.

He sits on the edge of the bed and pats his lap. She obediently bends over it, her stomach between his legs. He yanks her leggings down below her ass, his other hand on her lower back. She’s wearing plain white panties, which he finds hotter than her expensive lacy ones. He brings the paddle down once — the smack is louder than the sting, but she yelps anyway. He doesn’t wait for her to settle again before he slaps the other cheek, then back and forth quickly. She starts to squirm, and her pale skin pulses red.

“Gonna keep touching yourself without permission?” he asks.

“Can’t help it, Daddy. I just want you so bad.”

He sets the paddle down beside him and squeezes her ass, flesh throbbing hotly under his palm, then raises his hand and lowers it, quick and hard. She gasps, nearly squirms off his lap, and he does it again, even harder. A small wet spot has formed at the crotch of her underwear.

He sets two fingers at the spot and smears her wetness around. She lets out a low, relieved moan. He pulls her panties roughly down, looks at the lips of her glistening cunt. She waxes for him; he tells her she doesn’t have to, but she says she likes it. He tucks his middle finger into her folds and fucks it in and out.

“Gonna be a good girl for me?” he asks. “Only come when I say?”

“Yes Daddy.”

He wets his thumb with her cunt and slides it up to her asshole. She chokes on a gasp; he’s only touched her there a few times, never even slid his finger all the way inside, just pressed in slightly, noticing with smugness that she always shoots off an orgasm immediately after. Even now, he’s never heard the noises she’s making, panting whines, face buried in the blankets, hips wiggling side to side as if to pull him deeper into her.

He spreads her asscheeks and spits over her hole, smears it around. “Ready, sweetheart?”

She nods.

“Let me hear you say it.”

“I’m ready for — for your finger in my ass.”

He presses the pad of his thumb in. She clenches around it immediately, feels painfully tight even around his thumb.

“Relax for me, baby. Deep breaths.”

She pulls in a shuddering breath and her ass loosens a fraction. He pushes to the first knuckle and back out, picking up a slow easy rhythm, pressing further as he goes, until his thumb is seated fully inside.

“How does that feel, baby?”

“I — I don’t know.”

He knows she’ll yellow out if it’s a bad I-don’t-know, so he keeps going, using his middle two fingers to rub her clit while he continues working her asshole with his thumb, dropping some more spit to keep her slick. With his other hand, he lands another quick smack on her ass, and she must not be expecting it because she cries out in surprise.

“Again,” she says.

“Ah-ah. Be nice.”

“Please, Daddy, do that again.”

So he does, harder, and he can feel her start to tense up, the tell-tale quick quiet breaths which mean she’s staving off orgasm.

“Good girl,” he coos, “not even asking for permission yet. Can you hold it?”

“Uh huh, I can try.”

He wraps his fingers in her hair and pulls back, until her spine is bowed and her bare toes scrabble at the rug for purchase, though he has her held firmly in his lap.

She starts whining a little, and then crying, probably real tears, like she always does when she’s not allowed to come. It’s too much for her, always too much, but she’s a too-much kind of person, appreciates his ability to push her further and further out of her bounds.

He gives her a little slack, presses the two fingers rubbing her clit into her cunt, moves them in and out with his thumb. She relaxes slightly. He’s shocked how soaked she is; she’s dripped a filthy wet spot onto the leg of his jeans.

“How are you doing, princess?”

“Good,” she says, and he wants her to say more, but she’s probably too far out of her own mind to do anything but affirm she’s okay.

He returns to her clit, light at first but then hard and fast. She starts moaning loudly, writhing again, away from his fingers, which is how he knows she’s right on the brink.

“I can’t — Daddy, I can’t hold it anymore. I have to come.”

“You’re okay,” he says. “You can hold out a little longer.”

Normally he can edge her for hours, especially when they start early like this, but he’s harder than he can stand, cock pressed tightly against her side.

“There you go,” he says when she makes a noticeable effort to breathe through the tension coiled in her body. “Good girl.” After another few passes, he says, “Okay, baby, I want you to come now.”

He goes hard and fast against her clit, fucking in and out of her ass with his thumb rapidly, and she nearly screams when she comes. A flood of wetness squirts out of her, down his fingers and all over his jeans. She rocks and thrashes on his lap, saying _Daddy, Daddy, oh god, fuck,_ over and over, and it should maybe concern him how quickly she’s ascribed that word to him, when she always yells his real name when she comes. He closes his eyes and lets the sound of it ring in his ears, nearly guilty with how much he loves it, even if he’ll never be able to explain why.

He helps her off his lap and says, “Get naked for me,” so she pulls off her shirt while he tugs her leggings off the rest of the way. She’s trembling, and he pulls her between his legs to kiss her wide belly and rub the hot backs of her thighs with his hands.

He looks up and says, “You want a break now, or keep going?”

She runs both hands through his hair. Her cheeks are flushed pink, along with her neck and chest. Hair is curling and matted to her sweaty temples. “Keep going.”

“Having fun?”

She smiles and nods. “You?”

“Yeah.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too, baby.”

She climbs over his lap and pushes him down on his back. He can feel her stomach press against his as she kisses him. Making out never gets old. When he was a teenager, he assumed when he grew up, he’d get tired of it, move on to better and hotter things, but there is little else better than his wife straddling his hips, moaning into his mouth, sucking his lower lip between her teeth. Sometimes they still make out in public, on park benches, in airplanes and movie theaters. People give them all sorts of looks, some disdainful and others pitying, as if they don’t know what horrors of partnership await them in ten, twenty years. And maybe for other people, marriage is just another battle in the greater war of life, but not for them. They fight together.

“I want to rim you out,” he says.

She looks at him, cute little nose scrunched up, scandalized and slightly complimented. “Really?”

He nods. He’s offered before, of course, but she always turns him down. Thinks it’s gross, though he’s pretty sure if he asked her to do the same to him, she wouldn’t hesitate. He runs his hands up her thighs to her hips, rocks the bulge of his pants against her cunt. “Really.”

“How do you want me?”

“On your back.”

So she climbs off of him and lies on her back, head propped up on the pillows. He crawls over her and looks up and down her naked body, which, like making out, never gets old. From the first time he saw her to now, it’s the privilege of a lifetime to have her in bed with him.

He sucks a nipple into his mouth — she’s gotten more sensitive there, breasts constantly tender so he tries to be gentle. Eventually he might ask if he can nurse on her tits, just to taste her in a new way, to consume a piece of her he hasn’t yet. He trails down between her breasts and to her stomach, peppers kiss after kiss after kiss there, until she’s laughing and shoving his head down.

“Leave the baby alone,” she says, “they’re tired after a long day of growing.”

He sneaks a final kiss in near her navel and ducks when she swats at him, then settles onto his stomach between her legs, kisses and bites her thighs a bit before making his way to her cunt and licking a long stripe up it. He sucks her clit gently into his mouth, knowing she’s still soaked and sensitive. She gasps and twitches and clutches his hair in her fists. She’s wetter than he’s ever tasted, and his cock throbs with the need to get inside her. But first —

He lifts her legs at the back of the knees and moves downward, circles his tongue lightly over her asshole. She lets out a surprised, high-pitched sound but opens her legs wider.

He lifts his head. “You like that?”

“More, Daddy, please.”

So he goes back to what he was doing, soaking her asshole with his tongue, and when she’s finally relaxed again, he pushes in and feels her flutter around him.

“Oh my god,” she says. “Oh my _god.”_

After a moment, he lifts off and she whines.

“Hold on,” he says, and opens the bedside drawer for one of her vibrators.

“No,” she says, eyes widening when she sees it.

“No?”

“I mean yes. Obviously yes.”

He returns to what he was doing, this time with Clarke holding her own legs open, and he clicks on the vibrator to a low speed and sets it against her clit. She lets out a string of moans and expletives, and he eats her ass until his jaw feels like it might fall off and his hand starts to go numb with the angle he’s holding the vibrator.

She tugs his hair. “Wanna be on my knees.”

He pulls back and helps her roll over, and she takes the vibrator from him and holds it against her own clit now while he pulls the lube out of the drawer, slicks his middle finger up, and presses it into her ass.

“Want you to fuck me at the same time,” she says.

“Yeah?”

She nods, and with one hand, he unbuckles his belt and unbuttons his fly, pulls his cock out of his jeans. He should probably get completely undressed but he doesn’t have the patience for that. He jerks himself in his fist slowly while admiring the sight of his pregnant wife on her knees, getting herself off with a vibrator while his finger is in her ass. He rubs the tip of his cock against her entrance and pushes inside, all the way to the hilt in one slow, sure movement, at the same time he slides his ring finger alongside his other into her ass. The ring of her asshole squeezes and tightens; she cries out and pushes back against him. He hears her click the vibrator up a notch.

“Gonna come again, baby?” he asks. It’s nearly spitting his mind apart, that she’s full of him in every way — his cock in her pussy, his fingers in her ass, his child in her womb.

She squeaks out her assent, face buried in the pillow while she works herself over with the vibrator.

“Need to,” she says, meeting his movements. “Please, Daddy.”

Her cunt flutters around him. He stills so that he’s only fucking her with two fingers, his cock serving only as something to clench around. The vibrator is on the highest speed now, and she whispers, “Another finger. Please. Please.”

So he presses his index finger into her ass, and forms his fingers into a triangle. She’s never been this stretched out before, this full, and for a second he wonders if it hurts, but he feels her body tense up rapidly.

“I have to come Daddy please please I have to I’m right here please.”

He fucks her harder with his fingers, looks down and stares at where they’re joined together. Her wetness has soaked her thighs nearly down to her knees.

“Yeah, baby, go ahead,” is all he can manage. He grips her hip, pulls his cock out halfway and pushes back in, hard, and she comes immediately. Her whole body stills at the precipice, poised at an inhale, and then she begins to shudder, a convulsion all the way down her back, and shouts so loudly it hurts his ears. He’s only distantly aware of the fact it’s past five p.m. and their neighbors live a couple yards away in either direction and probably have their windows open. Surely they’re used to it by now. She isn’t even shouting words this time, no Daddy or Bellamy or God or anyone else, only cracking cries and choked vowels.

He nearly loses it himself, but bites the inside of his cheek and forces himself to think about paint swatches. She spirals down quickly, and he slips out of her so she can roll onto her side and catch her breath. The vibrator is still on, so he plucks it from her hand and turns it off, tosses it to the side of the bed. He curls behind her and holds her, sweating bodies cooling under the ceiling fan. He kisses her shoulder and rubs her back the way she likes after she comes.

“Why don’t we pick this up after dinner?” he asks.

She shakes her head. “I’ll be too tired then.”

“You’re tired now.”

“I’m not done.”

“You’re insatiable.”

“That’s why you married me.”

She rolls onto her back and spreads her legs. “Come on. One more and I’ll let you make me dinner.”

“You’ll let me, huh?”

“It’s a privilege to serve me, Mr. Blake, and I’d thank you not to forget it.”

He scoffs, sits up and pulls his shirt off. His pants and boxers come next, which he tosses into a pile somewhere near the hamper. He opens the lube and slicks his cock up, climbs between her legs.

“Are you really, really sure you want this?” he asks, sliding his cock up and down her wet cunt, feeling the muscles of her thighs twitch under his hands. “You’re not just doing it for me?”

“I never do anything for you.”

He tries not to laugh. Everything she does and is and feels is for him. “Okay, princess, sure.”

He positions his cock at her asshole. It’s tensely shut, like trying to fuck a drinking straw.

“Need you to relax, sweetheart.”

“I am relaxed.”

“Be more relaxed.”

He can tell she tries, because her legs get heavier in his hands as she uncoils her muscles. He pushes in a little, just the tip, and she gasps and tenses up again. Her eyes are pinched shut and she’s making a pained face. She’s so tight it feels like she might squeeze his cock right off.

“Oh fuck, it’s so big, fuck,” she says. _“Fuck.”_

“Relax, baby.”

So she tries again, and he pushes in another inch, and she cries out.

“Does it hurt?” he asks.

“No. Yes. I don’t know. It’s just — a lot.”

He remembers the feeling. His first time was totally overwhelming, and he was drunk and didn’t know what he was doing. He can’t even remember the guy’s name. He thought he was being split in half.

He rubs her thigh as soothingly as he can. “We’ll go slow.”

“Not that slow.”

He pushes in even further and she bites her bottom lip while a shout catches in her throat.

“Keep going,” she pants. “All the way.”

So he does, even if it kills him to see the pained expression it causes. Finally he bottoms out. She’s panting, and a sheen of sweat coats her forehead and chest.

“You did it, baby. How’s it feel?”

“I don’t know yet.”

He tests the waters, pulls out a little and pushes back in.

“Oh my god,” she says. “Oh fuck. You’re so big, Daddy”

His cock throbs. If she keeps saying shit like that, this’ll be over way too soon. He continues going slowly until she urges him faster, and he has her nearly bent in half, knees to her shoulders as he slams into her.

“I want you to come in my ass,” she says.

“You sure, baby?”

“Need you to fill me up, Daddy, please. Need you everywhere inside me.”

He leans down and places a light kiss to her temple, hopes it conveys all the love and adoration he feels in his moment, the unrelenting drive to pour himself into her, completely.

As much as he wants to make this last, he can’t. His baby girl is taking his cock in her ass like a champ, blissed out on her own orgasms, fingers rolling over her clit for a third.

He grips her hips and stills, comes so hard that his vision flickers white in his periphery. He relishes each surge, his cock pulsing in her ass, in case she never wants to do it again. He pulls out gently and she doesn’t even wince. Her eyes are squeezed shut and she’s working her clit with two fingers. He fumbles for the vibrator at the side of the bed and clicks it on and presses it against her. Within seconds she’s coming again, head thrown back, making high, quiet sounds this time. This one isn’t as intense, but it’s long, nearly an entire minute, and he watches as the puffy pink ring of her ass tightens around nothing and pushes his come out — thick, shining droplets that pool onto the sheets.

He falls beside her to catch his breath, places his palm on her belly and rubs in a slow circle. In a minute, he’ll usher her into the bathroom, and they’ll shower themselves clean. Then he’ll fix dinner, and she’ll insist she’s helping, but really she just eats things and talks, occasionally hands him a utensil or puts a pan or two in the dishwasher.

“What do they want to eat tonight?” he asks.

Her pretty blue eyes are glazed-over and happy. “Taco Bell.”

“We have to eat what’s in the fridge.”

“Or,” she says, “we can eat our weight in chalupas.”

“I’m not going out again.”

She pouts. “Daddy.”

He exhales a frustrated sigh. “You can’t pull the D-card every time you want something.”

She pouts harder. “Daddy, please.”

“Fuck,” he breathes. “Fine.”

She beams, and he hates that giving in is always worth it for that smile. He leans in to press his lips to hers. He threads his fingers into her hair. She turns toward him, and their legs tangle together. The kiss lingers and deepens, until he can’t tell where his body ends and hers begins.  


**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! You can find me on twitter, tumblr, and dreamwidth as bettsfic.


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